


A Picture Worth a Thousand Words

by macabreverbosity



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Heartbreak, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, Sulking, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-18 06:12:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2338052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/macabreverbosity/pseuds/macabreverbosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock finds a picture.</p><p>xof</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Picture Worth a Thousand Words

**Author's Note:**

> I'm dedicating this to Sarah, although I adore this pairing I don't think my adoration even comes close to hers so this is for her.

Sherlock didn’t exactly know when the picture had been taken.

He just stared at it uncomprehending which irked him more than it should, his mind was drawing a complete blank and that was frustrating as well. He despised not knowing things.

He’d found the picture a little while after coming back and resuming his life at the apartment he and John had both lived in, it still seemed sort of empty, quite alone.

John had of course moved out after the minor incident with Sherlock faking his death (which to Sherlock’s continuing bafflement John was still quite sore about, he’d come back after all, that’s all that should’ve mattered.)

He looks back down to the picture pinched between thumb and forefinger and examines it. It was of him and John but it didn’t seem like they were aware it was being taken, the angle was a bit skewed and only their profiles were shown, they were also both smiling—John a warm smile of amusement and Sherlock his small lopsided smirk when something was particularly entertaining.

As much as Sherlock hated to admit it, he missed John and he missed his company.

No Sherlock wasn’t the most caring of people, some would call him callous and unfeeling even. Psychopath was the prefer moniker. He did have feeling, albeit few, far between and most understated.

But what he was feeling now was different, it was a sort of tightness in the chest, like his lungs were seizing and not enough oxygen was getting to his brain; although logically he knew that the feeling was probably just a manifestation of his psychological state, he still couldn’t breathe properly and his hands trembled slightly, the picture quivering minutely in his hands. 

His vision was starting to blur around the edges, he felt like he was coming apart at the seams, he knew, he knew that it was in his head but he couldn’t control this not like everything else. He’d lost something.

Sherlock had lost something he couldn’t get back, he’d thought that John had cared, that he’d wait, that he’d maybe felt the same, but even the all-knowing Sherlock Holmes had been wrong.

All he’d seen from John since he’d been back was anger and resentment. He’d been so wrong.

The picture still clutched in his hand, creasing from the force, he wanted to shred the damn thing so he’d never have to look at it, instead he lets it fall to the floor of his bedroom, soundlessly landing at his feet.

He looks down at it curiously, studies the light falling on it, the position relative to his shoe clad feet, the gloss and colors, and he starts to calm down, feeling returning to his numbed fingers, little pinpricks of pain and he focuses on that, on his breathing, on his slowing heartbeat. He detaches himself from the picture, from the people in it and he can breathe again.

The door opens slightly and John sticks his head in before fully entering the room, Sherlock turns around at the intrusion and smiles—a tight lipped forced smile that never reaches his eyes—when he sees John in the door way.

“Everything alright?” John asks a bit awkwardly, it had been a while since he’d been in the apartment and although familiar it still felt a bit off, but more like it used to with Sherlock back and inhabiting the space.

“Quite.” Sherlock replies dryly.

“Are you ready? Mary should already be at the church.” John replies smiling softly at the mention of his wife-to-be.

Sherlock just stands up and straightens his clothes, dusting them of imaginary lint, stalling really. He smiles up at John, it’s forced but he isn’t going to ruin this day for John, he wants him to be happy even if Sherlock isn’t.

 _as long as he’s happy._ is Sherlock’s last thought before they both exit the apartment.


End file.
